Eulogy
by Subtlynice
Summary: They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes, Steve. But all I see is you. Warning: extreme violence. Cara/Jude angst.


Eulogy

**A/N:** Another one-shot for the Noughts and Crosses Series. Read it. It's amazing.

Don't ignore the warning in the summary. This story is... disturbing. Readers of the series will know why – it's Cara's POV. There are spoilers for the second book in the series (Knife Edge) and mentions of strong violence. Cara/Jude (or as she knows him, Steve).

**Disclaimer:** Jude and Cara belong to Malorie Blackman.

* * *

Hi, Steve.

It's me, Cara.

Are you there? I'm not quite sure why I'm trying to communicate with you like this. After all, I'm not even sure where I am. I seem to be surrounded by strangers. They're all talking frantically around me. There's a faint beeping noise coming from somewhere. It's getting faster and faster. It's quite annoying, actually.

There's muffled noise in the background – coming from another room, perhaps? Wherever I am, it's very noisy. A voice whispers something in my ear. They're telling me to twitch my fingers if I can hear them. I try, but I can't move. Oh, God, Steve, I can't move! Help me! Where am I?

_Deep breaths, Cara. Take deep breaths. Start again. Think. What was the very last thing you remember?_

I smile. I remember you, Steve. You took me out earlier – we had a lovely day together. You told me I looked beautiful. You told me I –

Oh, God.

I remember. I remember the last thing. The very last thing I saw. The very last thing you did. Oh, Steve, why?

_Deep breaths. Go back to the beginning. Just remember._

You told me I looked beautiful. I knew in that moment that you loved me, or were at least starting to love me. I knew it because the moment the words were out of your mouth, you blushed. You blushed! It was the most hilarious thing I'd ever seen. You'd spoken involuntarily, and it was so funny to see Steve Winner, notoriously calm and cool, losing his composure. And you smiled when I laughed and took my hand in yours.

We went for a picnic. A picnic! I took the afternoon off work to go for a _picnic_. It felt like a dream. Normal people are too busy to just rustle up a picnic nowadays. But you did, and you'd obviously put a lot of effort into it, too. It was cheesy and awkward but also kind of perfect. You suggested a movie, and since it was still such a ridiculously early time for a date, we had the cinema virtually to ourselves.

We talked. We laughed.

You laughed. _And_ smiled.

And I fell a little bit more in love.

I couldn't seem to let you go, and you didn't seem to want to leave my side. We ended up at my place. You kissed me. It was nice.

And I wanted more.

"D'you like me?"

The words were out of my mouth in a rush, and I wanted nothing more than to take them back when I saw your face grow rigid. You muttered something ridiculous and irrelevant about monetary issues.

I couldn't give you my love if you didn't want it. But here was something I _could_ give you.

I wrote you that cheque. I would have written you a thousand cheques, but you stopped me. You told me you wouldn't take a penny. And I believed you, because you always seemed so self-reliant. Self-sufficient.

Lonely.

And then you kissed me. We'd kissed before, but exempting our first kiss, I had always initiated it, and I hadn't realised until that moment how much I'd wanted you to kiss me without any prompt. But you did, and it was... bliss. We were on fire. This was nothing like our usual chaste, lacklustre kisses. This was passion-fuelled and intense. It was all-consuming, all-powerful. Your arms encircled me, and then your hands began to wander, everywhere I'd ever imagined, everywhere you'd never dared to go before.

And then we parted. I looked up at you, hoping you'd see the love I felt in that moment. You looked down at me, so lost and lonely. You looked hopeless and scared and confused. You looked loved. You looked _in_ love.

And then everything went hopelessly wrong. The wind changed and the fire we'd created with our kiss burned out of control. Your face morphed. You weren't kind and funny and lonely anymore. You were sad and cruel. You were angry.

And that was when you hit me.

I cried out in amazement. The force behind your fist sent me whirling to the floor. I tasted blood. I felt my head make contact with the hard tiles of my homely kitchen floor. I couldn't find the will to move. I was in shock.

You let out a roar, or perhaps it was a laugh. You strode over to where I lay and you hit me again. You pulled me, rolled me onto my back so that I could see you as you brought your fist back and swung it forward again. You let out an incomprehensible bellow and I saw your eyes, so full of hatred and pain before you struck me in the stomach and I had to close _my_ eyes from the pain of it.

As you hit me, I cried and screamed. And as I cried and screamed, so did you. Did you even know it? Did you even hear what you said, or were you too far gone in your hatred, too wrapped up in your pain to listen to what your tortured mind was telling you? Tears poured down your cheeks and your face was almost red in anger. It reminded me of a child – those children you see bawling at the top of their lungs, as the parent scrambles around frantically to try to calm them. But it's impossible. The child just keeps on screaming.

You were screaming like that, Steve. Screaming such terrible things. You were yelling for the world to hear of your hatred and prejudice and murder. You spoke of loss. You spoke of family. You mentioned your dead brother – you laughed and screamed and you spoke to a man named Callum, as though he were standing right beside you, watching as you hit me.

You screamed about love. You called me a dagger and cursed me for loving you – for forcing you to love me in return. But I didn't force you, Steve. The only force in our relationship was you; you forcing yourself to hold back, to pull away, and finally... to throw punches.

Mostly, you just screamed my name, as I sobbed yours.

And now I'm here. Wherever here is. I think I know now, though. I think I know why everything is getting quieter.

I'm dying, aren't I, Steve?

I'm dying. You've killed me. Destroyed me and everything I represented to you. Love, lust, happiness... you've destroyed it all. Are you happy now I'm gone? Are you happy now you're free to hate without regret?

Do you regret what you've done? Will you come to regret my death in time?

I suppose I have the easier path. I have no time for regret, no time to lament or reflect upon my loss. I'll be gone very soon. Moving on, letting go, isn't an option for me. But it's something you'll have to do. Are you strong enough to let go, Steve, or will I haunt you like Callum haunts your every thought?

It's funny, really. I know what you've done. What you are. I know that the man I thought I knew is gone – or buried deep beneath your white skin. But I still love you. And maybe it's just a crazy side-effect of all the meds I must be on, but for now, it feels real. I still love you, Steve. And it's killing me far worse than these scars you've left upon my skin. They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. But all I see is you.

All I hear are the words you spoke as I bled.

Was Callum your brother, Steve? The murdered brother you spoke of? I think so. In your rage, as you hit me, you accused me of his death. You accused all _Crosses_ of his death. But why, Steve? I don't understand.

You told him you'd make him proud. You told him you'd kill the '_dagger bitch_' who'd killed him. You said you'd make her suffer. Who, Steve? Who is she? The woman you say killed your brother, destroyed his life. You spoke with such obsession, such passion for revenge. Please stop. Don't let it rule you. You can beat it, I know you can. But Steve, don't continue down this path of hatred. I've seen such good in your heart, buried down deep. Let it out. Allow yourself to love. Your emotions are strong, Steve – your love is strong, but your hatred is stronger. But don't let it consume you. Don't let your only love be hatred.

Oh, Steve.

I thought I knew you. I thought I loved you, and I thought you loved me. I interpreted the conflict I saw behind your hidden eyes as love. Love and loss. But perhaps it was just the loss of love, because in that moment, all trace of love was gone. Your hatred beat your love into submission, and you beat me down with it.

I was naive. I see that now.

Everything's gone quiet now. Deathly quiet. The muffled chatter is gone. Even the incessant beeping noise has stopped. I can't hear the frantic, professional voices surrounding me anymore.

This is it.

I'm dead, aren't I?

Aren't I, Steve?

Steve?

Steve?

Steve?

* * *

"_If only he'd let himself love someone, anyone. If only he'd allowed himself to be loved. Then maybe that love would've drowned out the cacophonous, clamouring hatred that filled his heart."_

-Malorie Blackman on Jude, Checkmate (book 3)

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**A/N:** I thought the book quote at the end needed to be written. Jude's character fascinates me – I actually loved reading Jude's POV in the series, twisted though he was. As Malorie Blackman says, the series is about Love/Hate/Hope. Jude represents Hate, and his character is just as tragic as Cara's. I believe he did truly love Cara, but his hatred of all Crosses was stronger than that love. His hatred was passionate – it was almost as though he was in love with hatred itself.

If you liked this, please read my other N&C fanfic (_Three_). It's Callum/Sephy. And of course, reviews would be lovely.


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